


it's a force field

by owlvsdove



Series: soft shock [5]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 23:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2486063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/pseuds/owlvsdove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He’s fine, love,” Mary reassures immediately. “But I’m afraid there’s been a death in the family.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's a force field

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is my favorite part so far (besides the original). Also please note that I have not started writing part six yet so there might be a bit of a wait on that.

 

Jemma gets the call on the 27th, after the holiday festivities had finally wound down around her childhood home. Her parents are chuffed to see her, squeezing her tight when she passes them roaming the house. It’s always just been the three of them, and they get so anxious with her so far away.

But when she gets the call she knows she has to leave early.

It’s Mary on the line, which worries her instantly.

“He’s fine, love,” she reassures immediately. “But I’m afraid there’s been a death in the family.”

Fitz’s family consists of three people: Fitz himself, his mother, Mary, and Mary’s father, Jack.

“He’s beside himself. I know he won’t say anything but I was hoping, between the two of us we could—”

“Yes, of course.” Of course. “Mary, are you alright?”

“Oh, it’s a difficult thing, love. I think I knew it was coming, but it’s an impossible thing to prepare for.” She sighs, long and low. “We can talk more when you get here.”

Jemma nods emphatically, even though Mary can’t see. “I’ll call you from the train, yeah?”

“Be safe.”

So Jemma packs a bag and leaves for the train station, hungover from yesterday, melancholy spinning anxious clouds above her, raining down and soaking her with unease. She lets the dullness of her head remove her from reality, and she watches blindly as the vehicle speeds past country.

 

 

 

 

Mary meets her at the door, and the first thing Jemma does is fling her arms around the woman. She’s always loved Mary – first from Fitz’s stories, and then from meeting the legend herself. She’s exactly the kind of woman Jemma wants to be, calm and wise and clever.

After they pull apart, Mary tilts her head down the hall, and Jemma knows it’s time to put the pieces back together.

She climbs the narrow staircase and turns down the creaking hallway. She wonders if his mum told him she was coming, or if he’ll think nothing of the footsteps approaching him. She knocks twice softly on the door, but she doesn’t hesitate to open it.

His room always throws her off. She’s been here before but it still tightens her tummy, like stepping behind the rope of an exhibit in a museum, everything preserved to mimic the life of the past. But there he is, curled up on the bed, facing the wall. She drops her bag on the floor, kicks off her shoes, shucks her raincoat and leaves it on the pile.

And she crawls in behind him.

“Hi,” she whispers in his ear, and she lets her arm go around his middle.

He doesn’t respond, but she watches his cheek quirk.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and this time the whisper is accidental. A bit clearer: “Do you want to hug?” She doesn’t wait for a response, because she knows she won’t get one. Fitz is a whiny needy baby only when it doesn’t matter. When feeling consumes him, he asks for nothing to ease it. The air in this room needs to be stirred, so she does the asking for him, if only to hold up some fragile conception that they actually need to speak to communicate.

She climbs over him to be in his sightline. Her legs tangle with his protectively. He doesn’t want to look at her, doesn’t want to be looked at by her, but it is unavoidable and the seal holding his grief in must be broken. They watch each other for a long moment, though he doesn’t really seem to be seeing her clearly. Then, after the moment passes, he moves his arm, pulls her flush close.

They stay tangled up for a long, long while.

 

 

 

 

“Come on, you lot,” Mary says from the doorway. If she’s surprised to see them lying in bed, well…Jemma knows she’s _not_ surprised. “We’re going down to the pub.”

“ _Mum_ ,” Fitz whines, sounding every bit the teenager that he is.

“Pub. We need food, and I need to speak with Liam about the bar.”

Fitz groans wordlessly into Jemma’s shoulder.

“I bet Jemma wants to go to the pub, don’t you, Jemma?”

She plays along. “Yes, I’d love to go to the pub.”

Fitz rolls over to stare at the ceiling. “I know the two of you are in cahoots against me.”

“But it’s working?”

He gets out of bed ungracefully.

 

 

 

 

“He lived on a boat on the Clyde. He used to say he built it with his bare hands but Mum said that’s a load of bull. He won it in a bet or something.”

They’re sitting next to each other, which is a bit strange, because Mary's off talking to the barkeeper so it's just the two of them. She’d climbed into the booth first and he’d followed immediately. Now he's telling her stories about Jack. He sounds like he was funny. Like Fitz is.

After a smile-fading moment he says, “I'm sorry my mum made you come up here.”

“Don't be!” She smiles meekly into her drink. “I was actually going to come up anyway.”

“What?”

“As a surprise. For New Year's. Mary and I planned it.”

He seems to inflate, bashful little smile. It's quite endearing. “Oh.”

“So it's really no trouble.”

“Okay.”

“But it wouldn't be trouble anyway.” She looks him straight in the eyes, so he can't look away. “Really.”

He nods, looking rather overwhelmed. “Okay,” he stutters.

She smiles.

 

 

 

 

It’s freezing cold in the church. She slides shivering into one of the pews with Fitz, but he’s not complaining that her hands are icy, like he might usually. He just grips, squeezes, locks and interlocks. She is rattling, and it’s an unintentional and violent affront on the dark peace of the room, so she clamps down and tries to stop herself. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s distracted by the stained glass ahead of them, gazing down in judgment. It’s a heady mix of beautiful and terrifying that she’s never understood, so she avoids looking at it.

Mary’s standing at the front. Fitz was supposed to do this, Jemma thinks, but there was a tense conversation she walked in on this morning that changed things.

There are more people among the pews than Jemma expected. She knew, in a cursory sort of way, that Jack was well-loved. But she’s pleased (not really _pleased_ pleased) that there are people here who are least feeling a fraction of the loss that his family is. More people to share the burden of grief.

She wants to be respectful but she’s desperate to rest her chin on Fitz’s shoulder, to feel any noise that might leave his throat, to hide her face, to let him feel her trying to hold him together. She only drops her chin for a moment, just a second of comfort. He grips her hand tighter.

Mary’s speaking but Jemma can barely hear a word. She’s nervous for her, nervous for him. She’s never felt this, not this specific brand of loss, but now that she’s seen it she is bracing for impact.

He just sits, and listens. He cries a little, but mostly he's just quiet, sitting and listening and letting it unfold. Mary sheds a few silent tears as the churchman takes over, as she takes her place on Fitz's other side.

The entire world is quiet.

 

 

 

 

She loses him somewhere between the burial and reception, helping Mary load flowers into the boot of her car.

“I bet he’s in his room,” Mary sighs. “Why don’t you go and see if you can get him to come down to the pub?”

Jemma takes her assignment very seriously, going back to the house dutifully to find him. But as soon as she sees him she knows there’s no way they’ll join the reception.

She crawls into his bed like she did before.

She doesn’t know what to say.

“You should, you should go back to the reception,” he gasps. “I’m fine. I just—I’m fine.”

He does not convince her, so she laces her fingers through his.

She really doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m not leaving you here alone.”

He kisses her then, soft and slow, and she gives him as much as she can bear while they maintain their stillness. She knows it has almost nothing to do with her, so she lets it unfold gently. He kisses her – they kiss for a long, airless moment. And then she leans back against the headboard so he can use her stomach as a pillow. Her dress soaks up his tears. He is noiseless.

They spend the rest of the afternoon that way as the world goes dark around them.

 

 

 

 

Around 3 AM he speaks up:

“Do you want to go for a drive?”

“Depends. Are you going to be the one driving?”

“Piss off, I'm a great driver.”

She stays quiet for a moment. Runs a hand through his hair. “Alright.”

It's bloody freezing out; they're both swaddled, hats and scarves and coats over pajamas. The world isn't even dark, it's green-blue; the air is aqua-cold and the sky is pink. They drive fast in Fitz's old car, fixed and fixed over the years by his knowledgeable brain and steadiness. She jokes about him being a rubbish driver, but he’s undistracted this morning-night, no anxious hands or drumming fingers. She watches as he goes methodical.

They park on top of a hill; Fitz seems to know the curves of it intimately, driving up its road without much caution. The valley is still alight with downtown Glasgow, contributing to the bright blueness of the air.

He turns the key and the rumble ceases.

They crawl into the back. He props his feet up on the division between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. Unzips his jacket so she can curl into his chest, huddling for warmth but ready to freeze, to sleep dreamlessly, to feel strange and new.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Not a problem,” she says.

 


End file.
